


Five Times Eames Meets One of the Endless After Starting a Relationship with Arthur and One Time He Didn't

by slashmania



Series: accumulating names like others make friends [2]
Category: Inception (2010), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: 5 + 1 Things, Casablanca References, Dancing, Death, Desire, Desire just likes to rattle Arthur's cage, Despair, Destiny, Destruction, Dream injuries, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, M/M, Meet the Family, Post-Inception, Protective Arthur, Serious Injuries, Trains, sandman au, the prodigal returns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-11 09:17:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11711418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmania/pseuds/slashmania
Summary: In the past, Eames hadn't really been popular in the sense that he was invited to every party or went on a ton of dates or even had his pick of friends. But after he'd met Arthur, worked with Arthur, and (why lie about it?) fell for Arthur, Eames began to notice that he'd become oddly popular with perfect strangers, all who mentioned a connection to his darling.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A.N: I wrote first installment by hand while I sat beside my friend's hospital bed and it was a way for me to cope with difficult emotions. On the night she died I posted the first chapter because I couldn't sleep. While I don't exactly feel like writing I want to tie up loose ends before my next semester starts and actually finish some of the fics that have gone without updates.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or The Sandman. Obviously. I'm sure there are errors that I missed because my eyes are too tired, so I'll fix them tomorrow.

In the past, Eames hadn't really been popular in the sense that he was invited to every party or went on a ton of dates or even had his pick of friends. But after he'd met Arthur, worked with Arthur, and (why lie about it?) fell for Arthur, Eames began to notice that he'd become oddly popular with perfect strangers, all who mentioned a connection to his darling.

* * *

1.

It had made sense to team up after the years Arthur had spent following Cobb and trying to get him back to his children in one piece with a clear name. Cobb was going to retire from dreamshare and both Arthur and Eames's careers had accelerated with the completion of the first successful inception. Why deny the fact that they worked well together or that both were sought after as the best point man and the best forger?

With Cobb taken out of the equation, the jobs they took were relatively free of problems as Arthur carefully researched their clients and marks, even vetting architects and chemists who wanted to work with them and have the opportunity to brag to others in their field or put it on their resumes. He'd not have another mistake like on the Fischer job.

That didn't mean that mistakes didn't happen despite careful planning.

"I'm so sorry," their new chemist said, not sobbing yet because Arthur was out getting lunch and Eames had _willingly_ agreed to test the new mix of Somnacin.

Eames would have reassured the young chemist, maybe patting the guy's hand and promising that Arthur wouldn't murder him for a small mistake in the planning stages of a job, even though it was an inception.

But Eames couldn't talk.

He'd chosen a comfy padded lounge chair, one of the one's he'd wheedled Arthur into purchasing for the warehouse because they were making excellent money now, why get lawn chairs if we didn't have to and why sacrifice comfort in the name of thrift? Eames couldn't lift his head and was having some trouble figuring out what to do with his arms, but didn't care so much because he was seeing some of the most beautiful colors- like little fireworks displays that exploded into being as he tried to keep his eyes open, the after images of neon starbursts appearing on the back of his eyelids as he blinked.

"I'm going to get you something to drink, okay? Just stay calm, relax, and remember that I said this stuff was still in the experimental stages!"

Eames nodded and smiled for the chemist and wasn't bothered when he left to fetch a beverage. He wasn't bothered because there was someone else in the room that the young man hadn't noticed.

"I'm sorry," Eames managed to say after he turned his head and looked at his guest on the nearby lounge chair. "I could call him back so he could get you something to drink, too?"

His guest was very young and very fragile looking despite her odd attire- fishnets and bare feet, a coat that looked a lot like something Eames had in his closet. Her hair was wild- its color and style fluctuated and changed, making him dizzy as he watched it shift from short to long to buzzed. It finally settled in a length that was, maybe for her, fairly conservative, but it took Eames a full minute to notice that the colors matched those found in his paisley shirt. He was flattered.

Curled on her side, this oddity smiled at him, staring with eyes two different shades- one was green, the other blue with little flecks of silver that kind of reminded Eames of a marble he'd had as a child.

"Nooo," she answered, drawing out the word. "He- that chemical boy, the one  who looks so so _frightened_ \- he can't see me. Only you can right now. But I could make you _not_ see me, too. I can do that."

And then as an afterthought, she said, "If you want a marble, I can give it to you. I can find the one you lost before. I can give it to you-," she began to ramble, clasping her hands together, pulling them apart, and reaching into thin air to, improbably, offer him that old blue and silver flecked marble he'd traded to a boy he'd liked who was one grade above him in primary school. Eames wasn't in the state of mind to ask her how she'd gotten it, but there was something that made him not reach out for it immediately.

She noticed him hesitate and her lips trembled, making her smile shudder. "It's a gift," she began, ready to give it to him, reaching out from her spot on her lounge chair as if she'd place it next to his leg, an offering. Then she did. "Not one of those gifts I would give if I didn't like you- because I do, Mr. Eames- silly man who thinks no one knows your real name, but I do. And so does he. I'd give you a gift just because you offered me a beverage and didn't make me have mango juice even though I liked it once but don't like it anymore."

Eames blinked, not seeing as many fireworks anymore, but frowning over the run-on sentence that spilled from her mouth. Considering that this was a fairly self-aware hallucination, Eames was willing to give it, or her, the benefit of the doubt.

"I wouldn't make you drink mango juice if you didn't want any."

"See, that's why I like you. I could give you a gift that makes you see pretty lights all the time. I could do that, because right now you're one of mine, even though mostly you're one of _his_. I could make this last forever, even though he'd get upset and make that face at me, the grumpy one that makes me think he hates me and-"

She suddenly stopped, looking past Eames, her mismatched eyes widening for a brief second. The girl, though Eames got this sense that she was truly much older, sat up on the lounge, rearranging herself so she was seated on the side and facing Eames. She smiled for him and leaned forwards, pressing a kiss between his eyes.

"I've kissed a wyvern and now I've kissed a forger and now I'm going to go before he catches me. But now you'll feel better even though you won't see me or the pretty lights."

And that much was true- he'd almost went cross-eyed when she'd kissed him, but once she'd pulled away, Eames felt much more collected, he didn't see those lights, and after a second he noticed that she was gone.

"Here!" The chemist almost yelled, running to Eames's side with a full glass of water and Arthur trailing behind him with a particularly impressive frown; if Helen was known as the face that launched a thousand ships, Arthur would be the one that sent them in the other fucking direction. "I've got the water for you- feeling better? I ran into Arthur. Literally ran into him, but it's okay, _everything's fine_ -"

Arthur shot the poor chemist a look, catching the chemist's eye as the man frantically tried not to incur the wrath of Arthur.

Arthur put their lunch orders on a nearby table and moved to Eames's side, ignoring the chemist in favor of examining Eames.

"How do you feel?" Arthur asked, examining the way Eames's eyes reacted to the light he shined on them using the flashlight app on his cell phone. "When I ran into Baker he'd said you'd been hallucinating after you woke from the test run of the latest Somnacin."

Eames nodded. "I saw pretty lights even when my eyes were closed."

_And there was that strange lady. Did I forget to mention the strange lady?_

Eames wasn't sure why but he'd not said anything to Arthur about her. He hadn't even gotten her name, though she'd already known his...but if she was a hallucination, a product of his own mind, why wouldn't she know his name?

Watching Arthur continue to frown, clicking off his flashlight app and beginning to turn away from Eames to give Baker a piece of his mind, something occurred to him. Maybe it was the decidedly _grumpy_ look on his face that made Eames think of it. Just as Arthur was about to let Baker have it, Eames reached out and plucked at the point man's sleeve with his fingers, saying, "You know, I could use a break- I'm feeling better, but would you mind..."

That was all it took- Baker clasped his hands and frantically mouthed, _Oh god, thank you,_ as soon as Arthur turned away from him and returned his attention to Eames.

"Yes?"

"I think I need some fresh air," Eames lied smoothly. "We could take our lunch outside and take a break."

Arthur nodded and moved to grab their lunch, leaving Baker's portion on the table.

When they passed the cringing chemist, Arthur said, "Fix the mix and we'll try it again on me- next time wait for me to come back."

Eames followed after him, feeling better, but already enjoying the idea of getting some sun. He put his hands inside his pockets and didn't exactly question why he'd picked up a silver flecked blue marble off of his lounge chair and slipped it in his pocket before following Arthur out.

Maybe he wasn't finished hallucinating. Maybe that's why it felt so solid, why he'd been able to pick it up, why it was so strange to have it bumping against his totem.

He couldn't bring himself to remove it from his pocket- it had been a gift, after all. He supposed that once the Somnacin's strange effects had worn off he'd discover that it wasn't there at all. That he'd been silly to pick up a marble he'd hallucinated.

But all through lunch with Arthur, Eames was too aware of the marble in his pocket which seeming to grow heavier with each passing minute till Eames casually reached into his pocket to hold the marble in his hand, squeezing it tightly in the hopes it would disappear.

When he couldn't find it that evening when he changed his clothes before crawling into bed, he breathed a sigh of relief and went to sleep unburdened.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: It's nice to see that you're enjoying the concept, I hope I can finish a few more fics before school starts again.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or the Sandman. I apologize for any errors- I'll fix them later.

2.

Eames forced himself through the door of the ladies room, cursing over his luck and that he'd been hit and that the heavily armed, _angry_ projections couldn't be too far behind; maybe one or two turns around the dreamscape's maze if they managed to avoid the occasional dead end. He ran into a garbage can as he cleared the door, hitting the thing with enough force to make its lid tumble to the tiled floor with a reverberating _klang_ sound! Eames winced.

The noise would have to stop- he'd have to control his breathing, stop his cursing, and not hit, drop, or break anything in a room perfect for echoes. He'd left enough of a trail for those projections to follow without allowing a small, mostly tiled room give him away!

Eames looked at the door, frowning over its lack of a knob or lock. The thing just opened and closed with a nudge- that would have to change if he was going to make it a decent hideaway while he waited for his extractor- some up and comer who came with a good referral, to finish extracting.

Arthur personally vetted her when Eames mentioned taking this job. That a rare scheduling conflict left them working on separate teams, but that after this was over they'd be working together exclusively. They'd be a team, a duo, a double act! That these jobs would officially be the last they took without the other being on board in some capacity; either planning or going under or staying up above to watch over the team as they dreamed.

Saying that it hadn't occurred to him to miss Arthur's presence when the job started to go a little pear-shaped was completely false. He couldn't wait to finish this job!

So thinking of Arthur, who was lovely, deadly, and a better hand at manipulating dream architecture in emergency situations, Eames focused on the door and went to work.

First he gave it a doorknob with a lock that could twist open or closed. He manipulated the door frame, creating a lock-set to match the deadbolt he added to his new and improved door. Before he closed the door and twisted that deadbolt shut, making it even more secure, Eames added the finishing touch and placed a bright yellow restroom cleaning sign in front of his ladies restroom fortress.

With the thought of first aid in mind, Eames moved to the sinks- he unbuttoned his shirt as he stood in front of the bank of sinks, already bloodstained all over his right shoulder, and he cringed as he had to carefully peel the shirt away from the wound where the blood had started to dry and get tacky.

He divided his attention between listening for any sound that might mean he'd been found and examining the damage to his shoulder. Thankfully, the bullet missed the joint, didn't shatter the humerus, and passed through and through- it hurt like a son of bitch, but he'd survive it here in the dream. He manifested something clean to press against the wound, folding it up to make a pad, then thought about how to wrap it, but became distracted when he heard someone speaking to him.

"That looks bad, Mr. Eames," a gravelly voice said. Inexplicably, Eames looked where the sound had come from and found himself looking in the mirror- but it wasn't showing his reflection anymore.

"Oh damn," Eames said, reacting rather well despite seeing a flabby, nude woman staring at him from the other side of the mirror.

"Trapped in a restroom," this woman continued, smiling just a little and displaying her sharp teeth. "No idea if your partner is finished with the work, stuck caring for a wound with no supplies. You could be caught any minute. They might just kill you."

She just looked so _pleased_ at the thought of Eames's impending demise. Her gray and hopeless eyes were fixed on him, not moving away, not even blinking- like she wanted to catch his every nervous twitch and savor it. "Come to despair," she said, managing to sound enticing as she raised one hand to her face. Eames noticed that she was wearing a strange ring- it fit snugly on her finger, but in the place of a stone or gem there was a wickedly sharp looking hook. This stranger on the other side of the mirror began digging the hook on her ring into her face and ripping the flesh open without flinching.

Eames was used to seeing blood and pain and horror in the dreams he was paid to run around in- not all the time, but the subconscious mind was a weird place and sometimes these things popped up at inopportune times. He had no idea who this belonged to but it- no, _she_ was clearly interested in _him._

"Pardon me," Eames began, falling back to being polite to a perfect stranger, even though the emphasis on the word 'stranger' had nothing to do with the fact that he hadn't met this person before. "While my situation isn't that great and there are lots of little things that could go wrong, I don't think I'm in despair. I'm desperate or experiencing a certain amount of desperation, though."

The woman with blood slowly trickling down her cheek didn't smile this time. "Both desperate and desperation are synonyms of despair."

"I'll make note of that," Eames said. "Thanks for telling me. I'd hate to make that mistake in front of other people who might talk to me through the mirror."

She didn't laugh at Eames's attempt at humor. "You're taking this much better than I'd hoped- I'd hoped that you would become disturbed, let yourself be found out and ruin this job. That would bring you closer to me, I know it. I've seen you from the other side. When you were young I'd seen your pain and anger, your loneliness. It would eat at you, but never for very long."

She seemed to be...offended? Annoyed? It was hard for Eames to tell because her expression never truly changed very much. She was bleak with her black hair, her pale eyes, and her sharp teeth. And Eames was honestly trying to be a gentleman and not stare at anything below her collarbone.

"Sorry?"

"I don't know what he's doing with you," this woman said contemplatively. "Sometimes I think he hides you. I look from the other side of the mirror and I can't see you. It could be because you're happy with him. But I think he knows what will happen, mortal."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Eames said. "Who are you talking about?"

Suddenly the woman disappeared from the mirror and was replaced by Arthur.

Eames leaned closer, watching as Arthur patiently reloaded a gun with his back to a wall. It didn't appear that he knew he was being watched- not that Eames knew how this would work. He supposed that this woman, a projection maybe, was already pulling things from his mind- dredging up images of Arthur in relation to that other job he was working, tying it into themes of worry. Of despair. Because though Arthur didn't look beat up or hurt, this image of Arthur reloading, getting ready to defend himself without Eames there to help made Eames's chest get tight.

"What you're doing is dangerous," her voice said, background noise to Arthur counting to himself, waiting, and then changing his position so he could shoot at whoever was lurking in the nearby hall.

"We're dream criminals. We know it's dangerous work but we love it." Eames was going to add _"And we love each other"_ but couldn't. He thought that this woman was already aware and sort of disapproved.

She didn't say anything in response but allowed her image to take up the mirror again.

"He knows better," she said. "He knows this will not end well."

Eames looked at this woman, noticing that the blood was finally drying on her cheek.

"If we lived and made choices based on whether or not things would work out, why bother with anything?"

That made her smile just a little. "To ease your mind, your extractor has found what she was looking for. There's hope for you yet, Mr. Eames. "

With those parting words puzzling him, the door to the ladies room was broken open and Eames was forcibly, violently, woken when the projections got to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: Desire was harder to write than I thought, but I think I like the way the chapter came out. I refer to a few lines from Desire's section in Endless Nights.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or the Sandman. If I find an error (and I usually do) I will fix it later.

3.

He'd moved to fetch a drink but didn't do more than sip it as he leaned against the bar, comfortable and content watching Arthur in the crowd of evening dancers, moving to something loud and fast that Eames wasn't familiar with. Whenever Arthur would turn his head and look in his direction, the smile Arthur sent his way was enough to let a few of those closest to him to get their hopes up when they were caught and held captive by that look. But despite those false hopes there remained a distinct empty space around Arthur, as if he'd drawn a circle of protection that none could cross without his consent.

Eames was fairly certain that two very strange occurrences didn't mean that something larger was going on- it was the most bizarre coincidence- and could he really call what happened a _meeting_ if he'd been hallucinating for the first and wading through a mark's subconscious for the second? He had yet to say anything to Arthur, even though during the latest episode (if he could call it an episode) the person he thought he was speaking to had directly referenced Arthur, using the point man's image as seen through a mirror, maybe.

Two events didn't make what was happening a trend. He'd have to either figure out what was happening or assume that god was laughing at him. Making him think he was crazy. Screwing with him when everything was finally slotting into place, when he was finally getting what he wanted-

Eames wasn't sure what made him turn his head and look to his left. He hadn't heard footsteps. Maybe it was the sudden scent of summer peaches?

Either way, when he noticed his guest Eames attempted to play it cool and reach into his pocket for his totem in the name of reassurance.

To his left stood an androgynous figure in formfitting clothing meant to catch the eye- their shirt was unbuttoned to expose some skin, their pants pleasantly tight to accentuate their finest features. Eames wasn't moved even though he got the impression that this, all of it, was some sort of display that was supposed to garner some reaction. Eames did notice a few things, though.

This person, whether they were male, as the bulge well below the belt buckle suggested or female, as the bustline accentuated by the shirt proclaimed, was striking. The bartender who previously had to be coerced into making Eames's drink, stood at loyal attention and lingered when this new person drew near to Eames, even though they didn't say a word to them or order anything at all.

Eames had the presence of mind to let go of his totem which had reaffirmed that he was awake, and gave this person his undivided attention. It didn't matter if they were a man, woman, or both- Eames was raised to be polite, grew into a charming man, and had long since learned how to turn away an unwanted advance or possible flirtation. He was already spoken for, he was with his man though they were separated by the dancefloor but would likely join him after this brief conversation was over. 

"He could have anyone he wants," the person said, their voice low but sensuous, like each word was a velvet promise passing between their lips. They added a nod towards the dance floor, as if Eames needed further information.

"Yes," Eames answered, noticing the odd color of this person's eyes- the tawny shade of gold that Eames was almost certain was natural. Odd, but natural. 

"But he's already got you, hasn't he?"

"Have we met before?" Eames asked, already getting this niggling feeling, this strange sense that they knew each other. Eames waited for an answer as the stranger who might know Arthur and who sounded like they knew Eames (or was just particularly observant), plucked a cigarette from a pocket Eames hadn't noticed, plucked a silver lighter shaped like a heart maybe from that same pocket. As they put the cigarette to their lips and lit it, Eames noticed how dainty this person's fingers looked, a contrast to their dominant stance as they looked at everyone; the ones dancing, kissing, occasionally arguing, or those left leaning against the far wall watching the others dance and wishing that someone would notice them.

"It's like a hunting ground," they said, blowing out a plume of white smoke, holding their lit cigarette between two fingers and relaxing as if they were enjoying the show. "They all want. Desire," they said with a private smile that exposed white, even teeth, "is like a scent in the air."

"Like peaches," Eames added, taking a sip of his drink and looking out at the crowd like this wasn't the third bizarre conversation he's had since he and Arthur became, for a lack of a better word, official. Thinking of that, of him, Eames spotted Arthur as the other man looked up, ready to send a smile his way. But when the point man noticed the person standing next to Eames, there was a brief moment maybe a second or two long where Arthur was surprised.

Then the point man was moving away from the dance floor, not needing to work his way through a twining path to avoid fellow dancers, but moving from point a to point b with little resistance from the crowd which obligingly parted for him. Eames was sort of impressed.

The person on his left snorted as they waved to the approaching point man, wiggling their fingers hello rather then just trying to catch Arthur's attention- they'd had that from the second Arthur noticed their close proximity.

"Look at him go," they said, playful but with a twist of mockery, "He's spotted me!"

"He knows you, too?"

This person smiled before taking another drag from their cigarette. "Everybody knows me. At some point, at some time in their life. And sometimes they get what they want and other times they get burned. Because I'm sure you know that getting what you want and being happy are two mutually exclusive things."

Watching as Arthur made his way to him; how he was sweaty and slightly disheveled from the dancing, or how his eyes were so dark and focused it was like Eames was one of the only things he could see or was concerned with. That he'd manage walking through a wall unscathed. Because he was Arthur and he always got what he wanted. It sent a pleasant shiver down Eames's spine.

"With him I've got both- we work together so well, we _work_ so well. Maybe you don't understand it, but we're solid."

His guest politely smiled at Eames as the forger was busy watching Arthur approach. "I understand it fine," they said. "You could say I've been rooting for you all along, Mr. Eames. Not that you'll ever know, or to be accurate, really remember, considering the others have been so sloppy. I'll have to fix that."

"What?" Eames couldn't help but turn his head to gawk at this person when he heard those words and his name spoken by another stranger. The person, that beautiful person with the strange eyes and magnetic personality, continued to smile at him.

"He's come to break this up because we don't have a good history, he and I- he'd rather I stay as far from him as possible as long as he's in this form. But if he plays a mortal he experiences the full shebang. And he's always been unlucky in both attraction and love." They laughed and Eames fought to choose one question out of the multitude that occurred to him.

 _Who are you?_ seemed like a good place to start. "Are you his sibling? A family member?"

"Well," they said as Arthur was nearly there, "you could say that sometimes I'm his brother and sometimes I'm his sister. Sometimes I'm both." 

And then they disappeared, leaving Eames standing there holding a drink he didn't want, feeling Arthur's hand land on his shoulder and squeeze in a manner that surprised him.

For a second, Eames thought that Arthur was frightened even if one couldn't tell when they looked the point man in the face. Breathless from the dancing or walking quickly, Arthur looked at Eames's face carefully before examining their surroundings with all the care of a point man expecting an attack.

Eames had already forgotten the last ten minutes, aside from the fact that Arthur had been on the dance floor before and now wasn't. That the point man was happy before and now wasn't really.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Arthur said through grit teeth. "I just can't believe they'd-," then he cut himself off and took a breath. "We've gotta go."

Eames nodded and left his unfinished drink on the bar, back with the uninterested bartender now cleaning the bar with a rag. If Arthur said go, he'd be a fool to stay. Maybe they'd been compromised and needed to go, maybe Arthur had a hunch that something was off and decided that they'd have to leave the club. So when Arthur reached for his hand, Eames took it and followed Arthur out the door, into the street and away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: And this became longer than I originally thought! Maybe it's because Destruction is one of my favorite characters? Or that I think that he and Eames would have a lot in common? Or that (according to my new outlines) the conversation Destruction has with Dream at the end of The Wake really is one reason that motivated Dream to become Arthur (for at least a little bit). And if Sandman is ever to be made into a movie, though it will lack JGL as Dream, I would totally watch it if Tom Hardy got the role of Destruction!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Inception, or the Sandman, or any lines from Casablanca. This refers to Destruction's part in Endless Dreams and bits and pieces from the series in general- Brief Lives and The Wake. Any and all errors will be fixed later considering it took four tries to get this written and posted.

4.

Eames knew that it was better that they split up for this part- it was a job well done, the money would be put into their accounts (no names, nothing creating a trail, nothing that Arthur couldn't bury if he had a mind to), and they'd move on to live and dream another day; making buckets full of money, gaining even bigger reputations as the best point man and forger in the business, and remaining together, just how they liked it best.

But they both agreed that there was something off about the way their client behaved around them after their work was done- all smiles and hearty pats on the back which Arthur not-so-subtly frowned his way through making Eames wink at him to try and soften that look, to get him to smile for him. And Arthur briefly did after a second or two. Not that Eames was blind- he knew something was strange, he just couldn't put his finger on it...so he laughed at their client's jokes, accepted pats on the back and shook hands with the man like he didn't suspect a thing!

Their unspoken worries were confirmed when they were tailed soon after they drove off.

"If we were betting on this, I think that you'd have won," Arthur said calmly, keeping his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, his tightening grip betraying his frustration.

"Pet, don't be silly," Eames said as he idly checked the side-mirror and spotted the car still following after them. "We wouldn't bet on something like this because it's too predictable. I'm sure you could work the statistics and come up with an interesting graph or a spreadsheet all about the likelihood of our being betrayed, double-crossed, and stalked after we complete a job! We're dream criminals and we don't exactly offer our services to the kindest of men or women. Or organizations, governments, and so on and so on."

"Ugh," Arthur said, though Eames was sure his point man was loosening up, not giving up his worry but at least relaxing enough to take a breath, count to ten, and figure out a way around this mess. "If you start talking about causation and correlation I might just have to crash the car. God knows you'd not stop bitching because that'd screw with the data."

"Did you know that there's a study that says eating ice cream causes drowning?"

"Yes," Arthur said, still keeping his eyes on the road, still checking the progress of the car following them, and deciding which of the alternate routes he'd use to get to the airport. "Because when you go to the beach in the summer when it's hot you sometimes enjoy an ice cream in that sort of weather, and when you swim anywhere you run the risk of drowning for multiple reasons that don't necessarily include what you had for lunch- but the last time I had an Eskimo Pie I didn't spontaneously drown. I'm calling _cum hoc, ergo propter hoc_ and ending this session of bantering so we can talk about what's about to happen."

"I'm all for talk of questionable causes, darling," Eames replied, always enjoying a good bit of intellectual bantering."I agree that what's happening is definitely questionable but we can explore that topic later, I assume when we meet up at one of the safe houses?"

Arthur nodded, taking an exit that the one following them wasn't expecting, causing them to miss the turn and give Arthur and Eames a much needed head start.

"Which one am I shooting for?" Eames was all business now, ready to go wherever Arthur suggested, knowing the man was already thinking of pros and cons- each safe house was carefully tailored to suit their needs while they figured out their next moves. "Security is a must."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "It's a safe house I've stayed in so yes, security has been taken care of. You know the codes, you know where the gun safe is, and you'll be able to find enough money and supplies to last you till I arrive."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "You're sending me ahead so you can take care of them without me?"

"Not intentionally," the point man said, shrugging a little as he navigated his way to their first stop and the spot Eames was to be dropped off, even if they both knew that there was a bit of a protective attitude involved. Eames had made a study of Arthur's attitudes or behaviors- whether he was working a job, helping a friend, or distracting some ass who hadn't stopped following them after they'd successfully completed a job without complaints! It was human nature to want to protect yourself or the one's you loved, and based on where Arthur had just stopped with the engine idling, Eames was about to hop the next train out of here. Arthur even had a ticket ready, handing it over and not even giving Eames a second to argue with him.

Eames frowned as he examined what looked like a train ticket, dated for this day for what was presumably the next train.

"You had a contingency plan?"

"I have contingency plans for my contingency plans. I'm a point man, this is what I do. You're getting on that train."

Eames tried and failed to suppress his smile as Arthur resolutely looked out the windshield.

"Are you saying that I might-given an indeterminate amount of time, of course- be likely to regret it?"

Arthur dimpled just a little. "It's killing you that you don't get to tell me to get on that plane, isn't it?"

"We both know that I do the better Bogart impression...and I'm getting on a train. Maybe this is just Casablanca in reverse from the moment Rick Blaine gets left on the train platform without Ilsa."

"Just give me a kiss before you go. We'll meet at the Paris safe house."

"Sounds good. I agree so long as you don't bother to stick around here any longer just to pretend you're the the main character in an action movie, dealing your own brand of justice without a devil-may-care attitude- because you'd be all about justice dealing but only take a systematic, careful approach to making sure it was done well without hurting yourself or others. Not anyone related to the completely necessary justice dealing, any way."

Eames had already grabbed his only bag, leaving Arthur the PASIV, and leaning in close to cup the man's cheek and give him a slow, sweet kiss because what Arthur was about to do (despite Eames's cautioning) could end badly.

He pulled away and said using the Mid-Atlantic accent he'd try on like a costume when he was younger, slipping into the carefully practiced lock-jaw enunciation typical of Bogart's non-rhotic delivery.

_"Here's looking at you kid."_

Arthur shook his head but he hadn't stopped smiling. "Terrible," he said, even though Eames was certain he was lying.

He then detailed the route Eames would be taking to the Paris safe house, reminding Eames about where the key was hidden, which code to use for the security system, and finally letting him go.

* * *

 

Eames found something kind of soothing about trains. When he was a child he'd fall asleep while taking a train ride with his family- the clacking sound of the wheels on the track didn't disturb his sleep in the past anymore than it did in the present; well, usually. Now he was wired from the tension and the worry. Eames had thought that he'd just watch the scenery go by from his spot next to a window. But as soon as he secured his bag by placing it beneath his seat and folded his coat on his lap, trying to look like any other person attempting to relax at the start of a journey, Eames realized that he'd not be able to look at the features of the land as the train passed, he'd not care about the vegetation or trees. A bloody unicorn could be racing alongside the train and keeping pace and Eames wouldn't see it.

His mind practically popped and buzzed with thoughts of Arthur- it was irrational. He knew that Arthur should be fine, but there was something strange about being separated that poked holes in his conviction, his confidence in his darling's daring. Give it too long and he'd trick himself into thinking that Arthur wasn't capable of fighting off a nameless goon; breaking their bones and criticizing their life choices without wrinkling his suit, without getting a stain on his tie or his shirt collar.

In his imagination Arthur could easily become less dangerous, less commanding, and suddenly instead of being trained in several forms of self-defense Arthur would only know how to insult his attacker's mother and maybe give an Indian Burn.

Completely irrational.

Eames did the equivalent of slouching in his seat as he tried to take his mind off of Arthur. _He'd murder you if you said that,_ Eames thought. _He'd tell you that you shouldn't worry- that it makes you jump to conclusions._

Because deep in his heart, Eames knew that Arthur would manage to be dangerous even when he became an older gentlemen- maybe one that complained bitterly about his diminished, ninja-like stealth as his joints snapped, crackled, and popped with every step, but Eames felt that it was a plausible future for the best point man in dreamshare.

There. That was all it took to stop worrying for a few minutes- the thought of an older Arthur, just as well dressed but maybe with a few age-lines on that baby face, with hair more salt than pepper. Because an older Arthur wasn't a dead Arthur, either. It was something he might tell Arthur once they met in Paris. He was already sure that Arthur would roll his eyes, but he was also pretty sure that he'd get one of those slow "I'm delighted but I'm not going to tell you" sort of smiles from Arthur. Because imagining what Arthur would be like when he was older, finding some form of comfort in that mental image, would indicate that Eames intended to stick around to see it happen.

It may be early in their relationship, but they'd known each other for years. Their remaining together was as close to a sure thing as possible. At least Eames felt that way. They worked well together, they loved each other, and that wasn't going to change anytime soon.

Relaxed just enough to enjoy his trip, Eames looked at his fellow passengers- the car wasn't too full, so he took a chance to people-watch. The first person he settled on was a man seated facing Eames's direction, so he could see more than just a pair of shoulders or the back of his head.

This man was well built and dressed as if he'd been hiking before he chose to buy a ticket for the train- the clothing was worn but clean. His hair was a pleasant shade of red and he wore it long enough to tie it back in a pony tail. Eames couldn't see much of the man's face as he was carefully reading a crumpled newspaper. But every time the man turned a page Eames got another detail, taking one or two at a time and coming up with a life or hobby or interest that he could attach to this person.

The man's fingers were blunt, but not exactly inelegant- there was something to be said for the hands of a workingman, an artist. Eames noticed paint stains on the man's fingertips. With sleeves rolled up to the elbow and displaying the man's muscled forearms, Eames thought he could spot maybe a little more paint and something like a burn long tanned over from time spent in the sun.

The man's eyes were a pale sort of brown, not quite tawny or olive. Eames was busy coming up with a color to describe them when the man stopped reading the paper and looked his way, letting the streaky ink and crumpled newsprint droop a few more inches so he could look back at Eames. As if he'd known all along that he was being studied.

At first Eames felt embarrassed for being caught staring. Then, curiously, the man smiled and winked at him, returning to his paper without saying a word. Eames turned his attention to the window, watching the passing scenery for a moment or two, before turning his attention back to the man he'd been studying. The paper was gone now and as if that had been enough of a distraction, Eames noticed the man's luggage.

Close enough to speak without raising his voice, Eames cleared his throat and asked, "Mate, is there a reason why you've got a bindle?"

The man nudged the stick pressing against the side of his leg, pressed between it and the window he sat next to, making the striped kerchief tied to the top sway- how had he not noticed that?

"I'm just passing through," the man said conversationally. "Tickets are going to be checked fairly soon, you know."

Eames narrowed his eyes. "Yes, I'm familiar with that. Do you even have a ticket?"

The man smiled. "No. You see, I'm not riding for very long anyway!"

Eames would have said something, maybe. It's not like he had much of a place to argue from- he was a thief, he stole stuff from dreamer's, he created forgeries in the real, waking world. He had no moral high ground and wasn't particularly bothered about that except for the extra attention it could send in _his_ direction.

And he still had his ticket waiting to be punched. It was in his shirt pocket.

Sparing a moment to look at it as he'd given it less than a passing glance after Arthur had given it to him, Eames pulled it from his pocket and stared.

It was blank. The perfect size for a train ticket but completely blank...and he could have sworn that he'd seen typeface and ink and his destination with a time on the front of it!

Bewildered, Eames looked up at the man sitting not too far away from him on the train, noticing the way that he was looking at the ticket in Eames's hand, like he'd known.

"Doesn't look like you'll be riding long either. Care to make a dash to the emergency exit?"

It was true that Eames could see the conductor already coming down the aisle, ready to check the tickets.

"This isn't an emergency," Eames said evenly, putting his bizarrely blank ticket back into his pocket. "It's- look, I don't know what to call this but it isn't an emergency."

The man nodded and reached for his bindle, standing up and putting one hand on the back of his seat for balance- Eames had noticed the the ride had suddenly gotten a bit rough.

"I want you to remember that you said that. And I want you to get ready to run when I say, okay?"

"What?"

Then there was the sound of screeching metal, of a boom like an explosion that rocked the train car, and Eames was on his feet, bag in hand as he ran for the nearby side door emergency exit with the man with the bindle right behind him.

Eames jumped from the still moving train, clutching his bag to his chest and trying not to think about what he was going to break. Because it wasn't the jump that was going to hurt him- it was the landing. And after he hit the ground hard, rolling down the dirt incline leading up to the tracks, Eames had a moment where he blinked up at the wide blue sky and swore due to the pain he was feeling; a steady _thump-thump-thump_ in time with his heart beat.

Already knowing what he'd find when he looked down at his leg, Eames lifted his upper body up and examined his left leg- thankfully the broken bone hadn't pierced the skin, but he still felt a twist of nausea at the pit of his stomach. He carefully turned just far enough on his side so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit.

"That doesn't look pretty," a voice said. "Let's work on a splint."

Eames used his sleeve to wipe at his mouth, feeling disgusting but needing to focus on becoming as mobile as possible. He had to get to Arthur. He had to complete the trip, one way or the other.

He looked around to see if there were any branches long enough to immobilize his lower leg and spotted that man. Having landed without a scratch, he was untying the striped kerchief from the stick he'd carried with him off the train, shaking it out and tossing it over one broad shoulder as he began to break the stick apart into decently sized pieces that would fit around Eames's lower leg.

Eames didn't see how he was doing it, the man's hands couldn't be that strong, or, at least that was what Eames thought.

And then he didn't have much room for thoughts as the man knelt in the dirt with Eames and aligned the broken sticks, carefully securing this field dressing to the broken limb with the kerchief- Eames bit his lip and couldn't fit a pleasant thought into his head while he was internally cursing, using one hand to unknot his tie and hand it over to the man.

"Better use this too. I wouldn't want it to slip once we start moving."

The man nodded and took Eames's tie and set to work. "I'm going to get you off the ground now. I'm going to take you to a hospital."

* * *

"...I'm a bit of a black sheep in my family," the man was explaining as he carried Eames over his shoulder, carrying him like he weighed nothing more than the bindle had.

Eames made a hmmn noise as he looked on ahead of them, feeling like he'd replaced the bindle and whatever it was holding as luggage- he was a literal carry-on at the moment. He was hanging onto his bag with his free left hand; the man was holding onto Eames's right wrist and held onto Eames's right leg below the knee to keep him balanced on his shoulders, to keep Eames's splinted left leg from touching the ground.

Getting into this position had been tough, but Eames grit his way through the pain of briefly standing on the broken leg, leaning heavily against this black sheep, fare-dodging artist. Or conman, maybe.

"Funny, so am I," Eames answered, wondering what happened to whatever the man had been carrying. He hadn't seen anything when the man shook out that kerchief yet when they were on the train it looked like whatever it held had some weight to it. Like he'd been traveling with it- a transient or hobo, maybe. Or he was truly a conman who wanted people to believe he was any of those things, dodging a fare just to avoid spending money spent elsewhere. But he didn't look like the sort who gambled.

"I love them dearly," the man said, "But there was a reason why I left and didn't speak to them- one brother had a problem with the way I gave up my responsibilities, but another must have known it was going to happen anyway. I hurt them, I confused them." The big man shrugged, shifting the weight of Eames ever so slightly.

"But I'm back in contact, my youngest sister was having a problem and needed tending and I sort of half fell back into my place with the family. I wasn't just _the Prodigal_ or simply _brother_."

Eames noticed the omission of an actual name but couldn't blame the man- Eames didn't tell people his first name, either.

"You've got, what? How many siblings?"

"Six. I was the fourth."

"What're your parents like?"

"Our father was Time, our mother was Night- but mostly I think that all of it, all of us, spring from the minds of men."

Eames blinked hard and frowned over that. "You're awfully philosophical."

"Says the man who robs people of things in their dreams?" The man laughed. "Oh, you dreamsharers are a funny bunch. I've no idea how he deals with the lot of you! Roaming around his realm, hurting the dreamers! But he's got a soft spot for you, that's for sure. That's why I tried to get you off that train."

"What would have happened to me if I stayed on?"

The man shrugged. "Nothing good. But how could he have known that? He just wanted to get you out of the way, to protect you from something else."

Eames had a moment where he thought that they were talking about Arthur. Nothing else matched except for the bit about the train, about protecting him from other things.

"Why are you helping me?"

"Because despite being a criminal you're really not that bad. You're artistic and clever, you've got thoughts and feelings and live your life to the fullest. I feel responsible for drawing you into this- see, there was a wake and I visited my brother when he was alone and tried to talk him around to the idea of doing as I did- that he could just get up and leave if he wanted to. When _I_   left it didn't stop destruction or creation from occurring. It was freeing. But even though he said no it must have planted the idea in his head- he didn't abandon his position or let go of his realm. From what I can tell he's enjoying it. And that's why I'm helping you, even if I'm not operating in my official capacity, officially returning to my place in the family. As of yet, at least."

Throughout this speech, half of which Eames wasn't understanding between the otherworldly explanations and the pain of his broken leg, Eames began to notice that they weren't walking through a largely undeveloped area next to a set of train tracks, but that they were in a city, then walking through the cold, air-conditioned and florescent lit setting of a hospital ER.

The man who hadn't given Eames his name transferred him into the care of nurses and doctors who were willing to set him up on a gurney and leave the necessary but annoying paperwork till later.

By the time this flock of health care professionals parted in preparation to whisk him away, the man who had carried Eames to safety (in a remarkably short amount of time) already made it to the double doors and left the ER without doing more than waving goodbye.

* * *

"So he carried you to a hospital."

"Yes."

"And he didn't ask you for anything in return?"

"No, Arthur. To be honest I didn't understand half of what he was saying! It was strange, he kept talking about a brother of his."

These words were met with silence laced with static. After a second, Eames pulled his cell phone away from his ear and looked at the screen to make sure that the call hadn't been disconnected. From what he could tell, it hadn't been dropped.

"Are you mad at me, darling? I'm sorry. I know that you put me on that train to avoid problems, but there was an accident. I think it was an accident. To be honest, I'm not sure. I think the train may have hit something, or something exploded. But that man got me to jump off the train and helped me after I broke my leg. I'd think that you'd be grateful, I certainly am!"

Arthur sighed. "I am. I'm coming to get you and then we'll find another place to go- I want you to get off that leg and rest!"

Sitting in his hospital bed, the makeshift splint long since replaced with an actual cast, the limb was elevated by a pillow at the insistence of his nurse. His tie and the stranger's kerchief had been cut off and binned, so he didn't even have that to show to the point man. As if he needed the proof.

"Probably not Paris, right?"

Arthur laughed a little, just like Eames had hoped he would. "We'll always have Paris, Eames."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: Almost done. I'm thinking the last chapter will go up tomorrow so I can start my semester with one fic finished. If I have time during the semester I will most likely update or post on Fridays.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Sandman. If I find errors I'll fix them later.

5.

There was a moment where Eames was just between waking and dreaming- where things were kind of fuzzy and the sounds weren't quite as clear. Eames had been standing next to him, that personification that had worn Arthur like a forgery, standing with him in some sort of hall?

Though his smiles were few and he lacked Arthur's dimples, when Dream noticed the way Eames's attention was drifting, the corner of his mouth pricked up. He half-smiled for the forger.

_"You'll be waking soon. But you'll come back here next time you dream, if you'd like to."_

Eames had been puzzling over the things on the wall before him- Dream had said that this was his gallery. Eames had expected artwork but saw an array of strange objects framed on the wall. There were seven frames- he was closest to the first which depicted a large book covered in chains.

"Why do you speak like that?"

Eames wasn't really thinking. What he said could come off as pretty rude considering he'd not respond well to somebody bothering him about his accent. While there was an odd, resonant quality to Dream's voice, there was also an underlying quality that felt- not flat or emotionless, but hinting that it could easily shift and change to suit whomever was listening. It was possible Dream had a voice all his own, but it ultimately could be manipulated by the dreamers he interacted with.

Eames blinked and looked at Dream who continued to watch him with that half-smile, brow raised in a familiar Arthurian manner that made Eames feel a sudden stab of grief. He hoped it hadn't shown on his face.

_"An interesting idea that we could explore next time. Time to wake, Mr. Eames."_

* * *

Eames woke in his bed, still in the safe house, hugging a pillow. He spent a second remembering where he was and what had happened. He looked around and noticed that he'd left the lamp on; yes, he'd forgotten to shut it off after he crawled in bed wearing all but one piece of his clothing- the ruined, bloodstained shirt. It was then he realized that during his sleep he had migrated to the side of the bed that Arthur once preferred.

Eames had been waiting for something to hit him- for something to stop him in his tracks and give him a chance to grieve properly- at first, before he'd gotten here he'd been running on adrenaline and confusion because what had happened should have been impossible. And then there was the dream to take into account; the hope that Arthur wasn't gone, that there was still something there- that this relationship, the partnership, wasn't over. That Eames wasn't going to be alone now...

So Eames reached over and shut off the lamp, making the room dark. He buried his face in the pillow and didn't fight it anymore. It was all well and good to cling to this claim that Arthur hadn't been real, that he'd never been a real person in the first place, but it would never change the fact that Eames had loved Arthur and enjoyed spending time with the man; that he'd miss him, that he'd not know what to do when someone asked where the point man went or why he wasn't taking any jobs. Eames didn't know what he'd say to Cobb, considering that he was one of the people who had been closest to Arthur.

Eames allowed himself to cry over Arthur because to not do so would be an insult to everything Arthur meant, everything Arthur was.

When he was able to take a breath without lapsing back into tears at the thought of Arthur's smile or his eyes, Eames lifted his head from the damp pillow and spotted a guest. It wasn't so dark that he couldn't find her- she'd pulled up a chair and waited quietly and patiently for Eames to get himself together.

Eames had a feeling who this woman was.

"I'm not going to ask how you got past the security system."

The woman shrugged. "That's nice of you," she said, and then added, "You're taking the sight of me rather well."

"Should I be frightened?"

"Not everyone is pleased to see me. You don't have to worry; it's not your time to go. I just thought that you'd like to talk."

There was a moment where Eames recognized that he _should_ be scared. That he should have jumped out of bed as soon as he spotted her or heard her voice- that he should have reached for his gun and demanded that she leave him alone!

But he didn't. He crawled from the blankets, shoved the pillow away and sat on the edge of the bed; he'd been searching for something to wipe his eyes with when she cleared her throat and handed him a tissue. Not questioning where she's pulled it from considering she was wearing a black tank top and black jeans with pockets that looked too small for even a travel-size packet of Kleenex, Eames took it with thanks. She could have as easily plucked it from thin air and Eames would have been just as grateful.

"Do you do this often?" Eames asked, crumpling the tissue in one fist as he looked at her, taking in the small details he'd not noticed while he was still in bed. Her hair was dark, her skin was pale, and she had a mark that looked like the eye of Horus around her right eye. The only jewelry he could see was the large silver ankh hanging from a chain around her neck. Based on his cursory examination, this woman was a young goth who was better than Arthur at disabling an alarm system.

Or as Eames was beginning to suspect, this woman was another of the Endless; a personification of death who took the shape of a young goth woman who was kind and offered tissues but still knew how to get around an alarm system by pulling some otherworldly, greater-than-a-god magic. Maybe.

"No," Death answered, sitting up straight and watching Eames attentively, as if she really did want to talk to him about what was bothering him. "You're a special case, Eames. I know that you've been hit with a lot of unsettling news and that it'll take more than a chat with me to fix it. The truth is that nothing will fix it- he's gone."

Eames nodded, clearing his throat in an effort to not sound so raspy when he spoke. "Arthur wasn't real. If he wasn't real why does this hurt so much?"

"Because despite Dream saying that Arthur wasn't real, that he was an idea, he doesn't believe it any more than you do."

Eames waited for her to continue.

"He dug too deep when he created Arthur. For all his talk that Arthur isn't real, he put more of himself into the creation of Arthur than he intended. He attempted living as a mortal, but not for a day like I do. He'd done it for years. He became too comfortable in Arthur's skin. So he had to change."

"He mentioned that in his current aspect he'd been working on accepting change."

Death nodded. "That's true. In his current aspect he's not as cruel, better at offering forgiveness where it's due, but he's still fumbling with how to relate to people. He liked you, you know? Even since this change he'd been lonely. Moving on from being Arthur meant that he'd have to leave you behind, too. So he's done this. Ending Arthur in such a way but keeping a tie to you as a dreamer, as one he's marked as his own."

 _Marked as his own_ , Eames thought. Being a dreamsharer meant that Eames was already involved in Dream's realm on a fairly regular basis, maybe more than normal dreamers who don't use PASIV devices.

"Mortals can enter any of our realms- as the Endless we represent so much more than what we personify-we can also encompass the opposite." She placed her hand over her heart, touching the ankh as she spoke. "Like I also have dominion over life. Dream influences reality. My sister Delirium shapes order and lucidity. And my eldest brother Destiny defines free will. I could go on, but you get the idea. What I'm trying to say is that Arthur once existed for you- the people who knew him aren't going to magically forget he was ever around."

This made Eames smile a little, trying to not laugh at the thought he'd had. "He was the best, you know? He was the best point man in dreamshare. I know that people are going to miss him. I was wondering about whether or not I should bother with a funeral."

But even as he said it he knew that he was going to do something. He'd have to because there wasn't any easy way to explain Arthur's absence. Eames was just as well known as Arthur in the business, but since they'd become a couple and team his going around by himself would be a red flag that something happened to Arthur.

Yes, he could tell Cobb that something had happened, maybe keeping as close to the truth as he could without sounding like he'd gone mad. Arthur had been fatally wounded during their last job and was gone now. A funeral would give people a chance to mourn, to remember Arthur, and find some form of closure. Maybe that's what Eames needed too. He took a deep breath and noticed the way Death patiently watched him come to these conclusions.

"When you see him next," she said, "tell him what you plan to do. He'll approve of it. Don't be surprised if he asks to come with you."

Eames was about to say something about it being kind of dark attending what basically amounted to your own funeral, but it made sense. Dream might want to say goodbye to Arthur, as well. Eames nodded and thanked her for talking to him, not surprised to see that between one second and another, she'd vanished.

After that conversation Eames decided that he may as well get out of bed- he'd have to get moving soon, he'd have to find a shirt that wasn't covered in his lover's blood. And eventually he'd have to broach the question of a funeral with Dream.

But not right now.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: I finished my first week and it was stupid and frustrating so I allowed myself to drink brandy and finish this chapter early.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or Sandman. The errors I've missed are all mine and I'll fix them later.

+1.

Destiny rarely leaves his realm; he walks the twisting paths of his garden as all souls do in the course of their lives.

He doesn't tire, waver, or backtrack as he carries the Cosmic Log; a book that contains the beginning and end of the universe and its multitude of beings.

As he carries the book the sleeve of his brown robes slips and reveals the manacle on his right wrist- there is a chain connecting the manacle to the book; Destiny is chained to it or it is chained to Destiny. He keeps the slack of the chain folded over his arm.

He reads as he walks, though he is blind. His fingers never fail to find the edge of the page, turning it and continuing. He reads:

* * *

Delirium watched as Dream offered her a marble. Her view of him doing this was skewed, he didn't look right because she'd been lounging on the riot of color that was her floor when Dream entered her realm and stood before her.

A school of multicolored fish swam between the siblings and Delirium reached out to pet one as it passed her. It was an angelfish bigger than her hand and it darted away before she could do more than stroke it with a fingertip.

"But why?"

_"Because he's my-"_

"It was just a present. A present that wouldn't make him see the pretty lights. I gave him back the marble he'd lost!"

Dream knelt and pressed the marble into her palm. _"And I'm sure that Eames was grateful. But we don't want him to know about us, sister. Leave him alone."_

* * *

Despair stared through one of her many mirrors, the fog curling around the floating panes of reflective glass, each one a window into a world of another person's suffering.

Dream was waiting at her elbow, not watching the scene depicted through the mirror.

 _"You showed him where I was,"_ Dream said. _"You are meddling."_

Despair didn't move as she watched the mirror, moving closer to touch the frame. "It wasn't meddling." Her voice was quiet, as if she didn't want to alert her subject to her presence, even though it wasn't possible. It was clear that this soul was lost in it's own miasma of despair- this mirror peeped into the bedroom of a woman. She was clearly drunk.

"See her?" Despair asked, not looking over her shoulder where Dream waited. "Her name's Maggie Shaw. She lost her job, she can't stop drinking and she knows that soon she'll be on the street. No security, no comfort- nothing. What you're doing with this Eames isn't going to help him. He could easily fall into my hands when this goes bad."

Dream bristled at her words. _"It won't go bad."_

* * *

They were in the Threshold- the realm of Desire was a giant, flesh and blood replica of its own body. They spoke in a chamber where the heart would be.

"It's apt," Desire said with a delighted smirk, choosing something comfortable to drape itself on- a lounge, a chair, a couch. It could have any type of furniture it wanted. Space wasn't a problem in the Threshold.

 _"Leave him be,"_ Dream said, holding his ground, not allowing Desire to manipulate him as it has done in the past.

"But if I leave him alone, brother, what will he feel for you?" Desire's smile, quick and bright like something sharp-edged, lingered as it sized Dream up. "I'll tell you what I told him. I'd like for him to be happy, for the relationship to work. But we both know how your romances go- quick and sad."

Dream didn't take the bait- they would always be at odds. Desire loved to poke, prod, and antagonize elder siblings- Dream in particular.

"He's handsome," Desire went on. "He could have anyone he wanted, really. But he's stuck on you. Stuck on _Arthur_." Desire's tawny eyes held a wicked glint as it said, "Perhaps I'll tell him about the lover you sent to Hell because of your wounded pride?"

Dream spoke, touching the emerald dream stone he wore. _"_ _I'm not the same as I was before, sister-brother. Leave Eames alone."_

* * *

They met in the human realm as Destruction had not officially taken up his position again. He suggested they go for coffee.

"I like this place," the prodigal was saying as he picked up a cup that only seemed delicate because of how large his hands were. He took a sip of coffee and gave his brother a look. "Not going to comment on the location?" Destruction waved a hand around the small coffee shop he'd chosen. "That we're on Earth, among humans who are carefully avoiding us, in a coffee shop that grinds their own beans _and_ decorates with the works of undiscovered local artists?"

Dream examined the nearest piece of art and didn't comment, negatively or positively. He shrugged and tried his own drink, something with espresso. The taste made him smile a little as a sense memory he'd experienced in the form of Arthur came back to him.

"Seems you've gained an appetite for food," Destruction commented as Dream began to pick at a croissant.

_"Things don't taste the same in dreams."_

They were quiet for a moment; they were dancing around the issues that had brought them to this place.

 _"I know that you did me a favor. I owe you a boon- a favor- now._ _"_

"It's not every day I run into my elder brother's partner in crime. This seems like a first for you; you've never involved yourself so much in the lives of previous lovers."

 _"I built a life for myself and he walked into it,_ _"_ Dream said, toying with the handle of his cup, peeking into the shallow depths of it as he spoke.

That made Destruction smile. "You tried it, didn't you? You stepped away from your realm and realized it didn't fall apart."

 _"It did once,"_ Dream said, recalling the time he had been imprisoned, kept from the dreaming in a magic circle and robbed of his helm, his ruby, and his pouch of sand. _"But not this time."_

Destruction took a moment to study his brother; he'd shown up in a muted fashion, dialing down his metaphysical presence. Still an Endless, still the King of Dreams, the Lord Shaper, the Prince of Stories. And...?

"You've changed," he pronounced, crossing his arms and waiting for Dream's response.

 _"You said that last time we met,"_ Dream said, but shrugged. _"And I have to admit that I have."_

Destruction's smile was something to see- fierce and a little proud but ultimately happy. "Coins have two sides, don't they, brother?"

Dream smiled back and nodded. _"Yes."_

"I'll keep my distance from your Mr. Eames," Destruction was saying as he left money for a tip. "I might not have taken my place back as one of the Endless, but that man seems to not only attract but generate destructive forces."

 _"I know,"_ Dream said, pushing away his unfinished croissant. _"He's popular, he's successful, and he pisses people off. But thank you for helping him."_

* * *

 

Dream sat side by side with his sister.

They actually didn't speak for quite awhile- they were sitting on a fountain during a sunny day, feeding the pigeons. 

The birds would flutter down from trees, buildings, and telephone wires. They weren't afraid of the Endless- if people had bread, pigeons were obviously fine with whether or not the ones with the bread were actually human.

_"He's planned a funeral."_

"I thought it would be a nice touch- not just to help him move on, but for you, too."

They tore off little chunks from the loaf they'd split between them, tossing more crumbs for the birds.

_"It was...it was kind of you to do that for him, sister."_

Death spared him a glance and grinned for him. "Are you going to tell me to stay away from him?"

Dream remained motionless, quiet, not wanting to say anything else. He knew Eames was mortal, that he would someday die. He could find out when. He could find out when without his sister's help. Dream clenched his fist and pushed his half of the loaf to her, shaking his head.

_"No. I suspect that when the time comes he'd probably like to see a familiar face."_

Dream didn't mention how, if and when Eames died, he'd make his way through Dream's realm like all dead do. There would be time for a brief goodbye, where Dream would tell Eames everything- that is, if Eames hadn't figured it out or if Dream hadn't gotten around to telling him before Eames met his end. Dream would tell Eames about the creation of Arthur, about why he'd stayed with Cobb.

He'd want Eames to know everything before he departed entirely and moved on.

Probably following Dream's thought process, Death added, "Not now. I can tell you that much, Dream. It's not going to happen any time soon. Even if you aren't his Arthur anymore, you'll still have a chance to be together."

* * *

Destiny was nearing the end of the path- he'd be heading to his hall, his home, soon. He turned another page and continued to read, coming to a beginning in the middle of the longest, most detailed story ever told. His Cosmic Log held the fate of the universe within its bindings. It held the world, it held the people, and it held the Endless.

He reads one last passage:

_Dream of the Endless led his mortal, the forger known to many only as Mr. Eames, down one hall to another, wider space._

_"Is this-?" Eames paused. "You've taken me here before but I woke before you could talk about it."_

_"Yes," Dream said, fond and smiling a little. "You got distracted by the way I speak. This is my gallery," Dream said, moving to the first framed work that featured a large, chained book in a frame. "I have six siblings- our father was Time, our mother was Night- we are the Endless."_

_Eames moved to the end of the line of frames and stared at the last- it depicted an amorphous swirl of color._

_"You've told me about your siblings, let's see if I've got them all in the right order now. This is Delirium."_

_Dream nodded, pleased. "Previously known as Delight. She remains the youngest of the Endless."_

_Eames moved on, naming the others as he walked past their frames._

_A hooked ring. "Despair."_

_A silver -tinted glass heart. "Desire."_

_A sword. "Destruction."_

_A helm. "You, Dream."_

_An ankh. "Death."_

_Finally, he had reached the spot where Dream stood in front of the last frame._

_"This is Destiny,"  Dream said, gesturing to the book in the frame. "These are our sigils. Our symbols of power as we complete our functions."_

_Eames frowned and looked at the book. "I've met some of your siblings."_

_"You've met nearly all of them after you started a relationship with Arthur."_

_"With you."_

_Dream cleared his throat."The only one you've not met is Destiny."_

_Eames continued to frown over the blank spots in his memory. He shook it off and focused on the matter at hand. "Is that a bad thing? He's your elder brother, right? Is it about approval or something?"_

_"No. Destiny rarely leaves his realm. Also, his realm isn't as open as others- he can summon any of us to his realm while standing in his gallery."_

_"Oh," Eames said, thinking about it for a second before reaching out and laying his hand on the frame, not touching the book. "Hi. I just wanted to say hello, meet the family. Even you."_

_Nothing happened, but it didn't look like either of them were expecting that._

_"So are you going to tell me about your sigil- it looks like a gas mask."_

_Dream gave Eames a positively Arthurian smirk. "I made my dream-helm from the skull and spine of a dead god that once held dominion over this realm, before it became my kingdom, before it was the Dreaming."_

_Eames's eyes widened. "That sounds like a good story."_

_Dream nodded and began to walk, Eames following after. "I'll tell you over lunch."_


End file.
